Kristine Hughes's Blog, page 109

The Secrets of Bloxley Bottom - Epsisode 15 - The Game is Afoot

Monty smiled at Anne as she opened the door to the Dower House. "Where's Hartley?" He asked her, referring to Lady Louisa's butler.
"He's in the cellar, taking stock. I saw you ride up from the window and so came to let you in. Are you very disappointed that I'm not Hartley?" Anne asked.
Monty stepped into the hall. "Go on with you," he said, planting a kiss upon her cheek. "You know full well how very much I like seeing you. Where's Louisa?"
"She's out on the terrace, being that it's such a beautiful day. Come on, I'll walk out there with you."
"Major Monty is here to see you," Anne called as they approached the French doors.
Lady Louisa turned round in her chair, "Monty. I didn't know you were calling today. Have I forgotten?"
Monty bent down and drew the veil of Louisa's straw bonnet from her face before placing a kiss upon her cheek."
"You've forgotten nothing. I just thought I'd go out for a ride and then decided to drop round to see my two favorite ladies."
Lady Louisa snorted. "Anne, I'm glad you're here. Would you please bring me a glass of lemonade, my dear?"
Monty sat on the wrought iron chair across the table from Louisa. "I'd like one, too, please. And make mine just exactly the way you make hers, if you don't mind, Anne. And I mean exactly."
Anne stifled a grin, while Lady Louisa said, "Cheeky monkey."
Monty crossed his legs. "I don't see why you should be the only one to enjoy a drop of gin."
Caught out, her little indulgence exposed to the light of day, Lady Louisa merely harrumped. Monty gazed out over the lawns. "A truly stunning day, what? Summer is surely on it's way." The pair sat companionably for a while until Anne returned with their drinks upon a tray. Once she'd left them alone again, each picked up their glass and sipped.
"Ah, lemons," Monty said. "Where would we be without lemons, hhhmmm?"
"Monkey."
"Louisa . . . . "
"Yes, Monty, we get to the point at last. At long last."
"I was merely going to say . . . . "
"You are going to come to the point. Or at least I hope you are. Do you think I believe that you merely dropped by on a whim?"
Monty placed his glass upon the table. "Louisa, I am shocked!"
"I don't know why you should be," she laughed. "I've known you since you were a pup, Montague Twydall, and if you don't think that I know just exactly how your mind works by this age, you are sadly mistaken! Besides, you've got that look about you today."
"What look?"
"That shifty, in need of something look."
Monty's first instinct was to deny her charge, but he quickly thought better of that. "It shows, does it?"
Louisa looked at him, her voice softer now. "What is it Monty?"
"I need to raise some ready money, Louisa."
"Monty . . . . . "
"It's alright. I have a plan."
"Tell me, does your plan involve me, by any chance?"
"Look, Louisa, I've got a healthy inventory at present. If I could just sell off a sizeable portion of it, I would be back on my uppers."
"But you are always selling from your inventory. Buyers will come, as they always do."
"I can't wait for them to come to me, Louisa, I need to find buyers now."
"Are things that dire, my darling?"
Monty looked her squarely in the eyes. "They are, Louisa."
Louisa took a long pull of her lemonade. "Just what do you need from me?"
"I was thinking that you might use your influence to lure some of your circle here to see some of the pieces. We might then hint that they were destined for sale in, say, London and Paris, but of course as they were your friends, I might see my way clear to selling one or two things to them privately."
"Here? We'd have the items here for them to see?"
"That is what I was thinking."
Louisa was silent for a time. "It wouldn't work, Monty."
"But, Louisa, I . . . "
Louisa raised a hand to cut off Monty's words. "Think about it, Monty. Why ever would I coincidentally have your pieces in my home when I invite people in for some entertainment, or dinner, or what have you? Hhhmm? No. It smacks too much of commerce. And where would we put your things, in any case? I've got too much of my own furniture and geegaws as it is. Would I move all my things out and yours in? Does that make any sense, Monty?"
"Well," he conceded, "now that you put it like that . . . . "
"But I tell you what will work - I have already invited a select few people round for dinner on the nineteenth."
Monty looked at her hopefully, "Go on."
"Do you have any of those marble statues still in your possession?"
"Those hideous ones I was talked into taking from that sculptor in Belgrade? Yes, I have three left."
"Any other bits and pieces that might be construed to have an historic lineage?"
"What can you mean, Louisa?"
Louisa set her glass down and leaned conspiratorially towards Monty. "I was thinking that we should perhaps make an entertainment out of the affair. After dinner, we could pile all the guests into carriages and drive by torchlight to your Hall. There, we shall have placed all of your so called antiquities upon display in a sort of historical tableau. Of course, we shall hint at the historical, not to say educational, aspect of the items as a reason for their being worthy of a post-dinner jaunt to the Hall. Then, I shall ask you, within hearing of everyone present, how it is that you come to have such glorious objects in Bloxley Bottom and that is when you shall make mention of the fictional sales in London and Paris. You see, Monty, we will offer the objects for sale without ever mentioning that they are for sale."

Monty gave Louisa a slow smile. "You are a genius."
"You are only now realizing that?"
"But, Louisa, the storage rooms at the Hall are not fit to be seen. They're downright grubby, in point of fact."
"Never mind that. It will be night time. Anne and I shall come down one day this week and see what can be done. A few well placed draperies and some clever lighting will make all the difference, you'll see. At worse, we shall move the pieces into the main house. In any case, we shall make it work, my boy."
"You make it all seem possible, Louisa. I'm beginning to hope that this just might be a success. And if it is, you know that I shall be eternally grateful."
"Of course you shall. And you will also give me a portion of your proceeds. But we needn't discuss those details just now. Anne! Anne, my dear, I believe we are in need of more lemonade."

Author Mary Robinette Kowal in Milwaukee

Mary Robinette Kowal at Boswell's Books
Rows of wonderful books at Boswell Book Store provided a perfect background for a performance and reading by Ms. Kowal, who is an accomplished puppeteer as well as an author of Regency-fantasist fiction.  She presented a brief shadow puppet show "The Broken Bridge," much as it would have been seen 200 years ago.  It was farcical and very well acted, bringing appreciative laughter and applause from the audience.Here is her website.

Book One of the Glamourist series
The audience was a mix of science fiction/Fantasy fans and devotees of Jane Austen, for Ms. Kowal's novels are an engaging mix of the two.   Her primary characters, Jane and Vincent, combine their magical powers to entertain the Regency elite. 



Mary's career extended over about ten years as a professional puppeteer, with a variety of types of puppets: shadow, hand, stick and marionettes.  She began writing fantasy fiction and soon was published and winning awards. 


Hand-stitched Regency apparel
She was able to combine her love for Jane Austen into her fantasy writing with the creation of the Glamourist series set in the Regency and involving magical abilities on the part of the hero and heroine.  In her quest for authenticity, Ms. Kowal even sewed a number of faithfully designed Regency gowns, complete with their required underpinnings.

Second Book in the Glamourist series
Her work with puppets as well as her fiction has won awards and critical acclaim.  Ms. Kowal currently lives in Chicago with her husband, a wine-maker.

Signing books
Among the little games Ms. Kowal likes to play with her readers is the occasional appearance of Dr. Who in her novels, hidden in plain sight.

With JASNA-WI members Sara Bowen, Ms. Kowal, Victoria Hinshaw and Jane Glaisner


Book Three of the Glamourist series

Ms. Kowal assures us we can expect Book Four very soon...set in Venice and featuring Byron and a menagerie of animals...along with more magic.

A Couple In England - Day Six - Part Two

 


 
Hubby and I left the Skyline Tour bus and walked over to the City Tour bus, climbed aboard and settled in. Here's a view out of the bus window - still drizzly, grey and cold, but I had half a roll of loo paper left in my shoulder bag to use as tissues so I was good to go. Well, maybe not good, but I was still alive. Had you asked me the chances of that yesterday, I'd have said slim to none.  Before long, the bus pulled out and headed toward the Grand Parade.

Can you see the colonnades at the bottom of the photo above? Interestingly, there's currently a scheme to re-open them to the public and to redevelop the surrounding area. You can read more about those plans here.  We traveled down Avon Street and past the Westgate Buildings until we reached Queen Square, developed by architect John Wood the Elder. Queen Square is a key component of Wood's vision for Bath. Named in honour of George II's queen, and was  intended to appear like a palace with wings and a forecourt to be viewed from the south side.      Although outside the city walls, Queen Square quickly became a popular residence for Bath's Georgian society. It was away from the crowded streets of medieval Bath, but only a short walk to the Abbey, Pump Room, Assembly Rooms and baths. To the north, Wood's vision continued with Gay Street where Jane Austen lived, - and the Circus which became home to Thomas Gainesborough.     During the raids, a 500 kilograms (1,100 lb) bomb landed on the east side of the Square, resulting in houses on the south side being damaged. The Francis Hotel (above) lost 24 metres (79 ft) of its hotel frontage, and most of the buildings on the square suffered some level of schrapnel damage. Casualties on the Square were low considering the devastation, with the majority of hotel guests and staff having taken shelter in the hotel's basement. Today, all the buildings are listed as Grade I.



Before I realized it, we were passing the Jane Austen Centre. I took the photo above out of the bus window. If you look closely, you can see the mannequin dressed in blue Regency garb at the front door. The audio tour informed us that it was the JA Centre, prompting Hubby to groan aloud.  "What's wrong with you?" "Jane Austen. You're going to want to get off the bus and go and look." "No I'm not," I told him.  Hubby stared at me for a few beats. "Are you sure? Come on, I'll go with you." I shook my head. "But it's Jane Austen," Hubby insisted. Sigh. "Thanks, but I'm really not in the mood," I told him while blowing my nose. And hacking.  Hubby gave me a searching look, probably trying to figure out where exactly along the route I'd been switched for a Stepford Wife. Before long, we were passing the Assembly Rooms and Fashion Museum. The audio guide told us that the Rooms had been at the centre of society in Georgian Bath, prompting Hubby to nudge me.  "Assembly Rooms, Hon." I nodded. "Beau Nash," I said. I had been anticipating returning to the Assembly Rooms, and the Fashion Museum, for months and now that I was at them, now that I could simply step off the bus and visit them, I had no enthusiasm for them at all. I was still feeling awful and it was all I could do to watch Bath roll by through the bus window.     On our way to the Royal Crescent, we passed Number 1 Royal Crescent, below, which is currently closed. It's a fabulous museum that illustrates upper class life as it was in Georgian and Regency times. Each room is furnished as it would have been then and it truly gives visitors a sense of what it was like to live in a gentleman's townhouse of the day. Currently, the museum is expanding to incorporate servants quarters, which will also be open to the public, thus allowing visitors the full, upstairs/downstairs experience. Click here to visit the museum's website and learn the story of it's past and future.      Next we saw the Royal Crescent itself, designed by the architect John Wood the Younger and built between 1767 and 1774. Interestingly, each original purchaser bought a length of the façade, and then employed their own architect to build a house behind the façade to their own specifications; hence what can appear to be two houses is occasionally just one.       Traveling down Upper Bristol Road, we passed Royal Victoria Park and the Botanical Gardens. The Park was the first to be named for Princess Victoria, who opened it in 1830, when she was eleven years old. This all took place during that misguided press tour organized by her mother, the Duchess of Kent. Supposedly, a journalist made derogatory remarks at the time she opened the Park regarding Victoria's choice of dress, prompting her to turn her face against Bath for the rest of her long life.      On our way to our final tour stop, we passed Sally Lunn's house at Number 4 North Parade Passage. According to legend, Sally Lunn, a French refugee, arrived in Bath in1680 and established her bakery. The original 'Bath Bun' baked by Sally Lunn was a light, round bread similar to traditional French festival breads. The popularity of the Bath Buns was such that they were mass-produced for the Great Exhibition of 1851 in London. You can visit the Sally Lunn website here to read more about it's history and traditions.  Hubby and I exited the tour bus and I walked us towards the Abbey.


"Do you want to go inside?" I asked him.  "Inside what?" "The Abbey." "Not particularly." "Well then, we're going to the Baths. You can't make your first visit to Bath and not see the Baths."  "Are you sure you feel up to it, Hon?" I really didn't, but I wasn't going let this cold/flu/cholera defeat me or make me miss any more of the City. "Yes, I'm up to it," I told Hubby, taking his arm while thinking about the fact that we were supposed to return here tonight in order to see the fireworks over the Abbey. Please, God, I silently prayed, send me a minor miracle. Sigh.   Part Three Coming Soon!


 

The Secrets of Bloxley Bottom, Episode 14

Major Monty Twydall paced back and forth across the broad terrace of Saxon Lodge, ignoring the handsome view of the park, focusing on nothing but the dark clouds hovering at the edge of his life. Monty was unaccustomed to rumination of any sort whatsoever, and he particularly had disdained self-examination.  But a crisis loomed if he could not think of a solution to his shortage of ready cash.

An objective observer could have listed for Monty the many times in which his continual good luck smoothed his way.  From being born to a wealthy family as a younger son, thus relieving him of duty due to the ancestral estate....to Life Guards postings which brought a certain degree of cache while Monty had only to stand upon the fringes of military action...to a welcome legacy from a distant aunt...Monty's life thus far had been one in which his dark good looks, fine manners and impressive sense of humor took him everywhere. Above all the supplemental income provided by his skills at the card table and eye for fine racing horseflesh allowed him to frequent the fitting rooms of the finest tailors and paid the cost of his lease on the Lodge where he could entertain his friends and sport with the Naxians without limit.





Until now. Monty stopped and leaned against the corner of the house.  Nothing had come up for him lately, not the cards, not the runners, not the cocks, and not even the boxing mills.  His debts of honor added up to an inconceivable amount.

Almost all of the legacy had gone for the Lodge. Its furnishings put him in contact with a number of men who were happiest on dark nights which allowed them to bring ashore a considerable number of undeclared items from across the Channel. These proved quite lucrative for Monty, who sold these items on to well connected friends. Everyone loved French cabinetry, it seemed. The older the piece, the more Monty could realize. At first the smugglers thought he was daft, wanting the oldest objects they could find.  But he also took a large share of their primary product - the rich, red clarets so prized at a gentleman's table.

As Monty stood deep in thought, his mind settled upon the few remaining pieces of furntiture that stood in a storage room behind his stables.  When the shipment had first arrived, Monty had given  the members of the Naxians their choice of the pieces, much to the delight of their wives, as Monty had he'd heard afterwards. It was time to sell what he had left, but the pieces were of fine quality and would benefit from being placed in surroundings which suited their quality. Monty needed a place to invite guests of a different sort than his raffish friends who came to the Lodge.

It was time, Monty chided himself, to call upon his most influential, and potentially profitable, contacts.  If he called upon his friend, the Dowager Baroness Bloxley, might he be able to persuade her to invite some of her own set to her home in order to show off a few of his pieces?  He needed to pique Louisa's interest and to appeal to her sly sense of humour. Perhaps he should frame the party as a caper that would make for a tale she could tell many times over at the tea or dinner table.  Wouldn't it be amusing for her to tell everyone how she, Lady Louisa, the imperious baroness, daughter of an earl, had dabbled in trade? 

The more he thought about it, the better Monty liked the idea. The suggestion was just outré enough to appeal to Louisa, who had, as Monty had learned to both his chagrin and amusement, a decidedly naughty side. An aristocrat Louisa may be; a pillar of the community and matriarch of a distinguished family. But as Monty well knew, Lady Louisa could also be a bit of a minx. Monty smiled. Oh, but he was a naughty boy. However, needs must as Shakespeare had so rightly pointed out.

Visiting the Crystal Bridges Museum of Art with Victoria

As we drove home to Milwaukee from Naples, FL, last month, we took a long detour to visit Bentonville, AR, to see the Crystal Bridges Museum of Art (website here), and I tried to think of an excuse to write about it on this blog -- a connection to London. 


The William J. Clinton Presidential Center & Park

The first connection I found was as we drove around Little Rock, AR.  Well, President Clinton met the Queen, right?  A stretch for an entire blog post, I guess.


Then I snapped a sign on the way along Interstate 40. Go figure.



The Crystal Bridges Museum

Our drive was summer to winter in reverse.  In Florida, it was like summer, We saw wonderful blooms all through Georgia and even Tennessee.  But by northern Arkansas, it was just beginning to turn green. 




The setting and architecture of the museum is stunning.  The first thing we did was have lunch, but there wasn't a single relative of Steak and Kidney Pie or Bangers and Mash on the menu.We comforted ourselves with California wine and hamburgers.


Indians of Virginia by James Wooldridge, ca. 1675
 I was really excited when we started through the galleries and found one of the first pictures was done by an Englishman, James Wooldridge, ca. 1635-1695.  It is the earliest painting in the collection.  The label tells us: "...Wooldridge spent his career in London, and never himself encountered Native Americans."  He worked from sketches and engravings made by others.  Success!!  A REAL connection with Number One London!! Hooray.

Cupid and Psyche, by Benjamin West, 1808

Of course I needed have worried.  The museum displays a number of works by Americans who spent parts of their careers in London.  Benjamin West  (1738-1820) was born in Pennsylvania, moved to London in 1765 and became Historical Painter for George III in 1772. Twenty years later West became the second president of the Royal Academy of Art; he is buried in St. Paul's Cathedral.  



Mrs. Theodore Atkinson, jr. (Frances Deering Wentworth), 1765John Singleton Copley 1738-1815

Copley was born in Boston and became well established in colonial America as a portraitist.  He left his family to study in London and Italy. He and his wife and children settled in London in 1775.  He enjoyed successes and disappointments, the latter particularly in regard to a painting he made of the Prince Regent which Prinny declined to purchase, perhaps assuming it was to be a gift.  Mrs. Atkinson (above) is sumptuously attired, showing the wealth of colonial society.  She holds a gold chain attached to a tame squirrel.


View of Mark di Suvero sculpture from the gallery

Alice Walton, daughter of the founder of the WalMart empire, founded the Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art and worked closely with the architect Moshe Safdie to integrate the buildings with the hilly woods of the Ozarks.  She is active in many philanthropies.


Robert Louis Stevenson and His Wife (Fanny Osborne), 1885by John Singer Sargent 1836-1925


Though the museum is growing rapidly and filled with fascinating art, I will close with two paintings by another American who ended up making much of his career in Britain.  The label points out the contrast in the active figure of Scottish author Stevenson contrasted with the ease of his wife.  Sargent carried on the great portraitist tradition of Van Dyke, Reynolds, Gainsborough and Lawrence, below in the portrait of Mary Crowninshield Endicott Chamberlain.


Mrs. Joseph Chamberlain, 1902by John Singer Sargent


Mary Chamberlain was born in the US and married in 1888, as his third wife, Joseph Chamberlain, a member of Parliament who also held several important positions in the British government.  She was the daughter of the U.S. Secretary of War, William C. Endicott.  Sargent's work was particularly admired for his treatment of the "shimmering" satin of her attire.


Yield, 2011, by Roxy Paine

If the crowds  at the Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art on the Sunday we visited is any indication, I would say Ms. Alice Walton has been very shrewd about what would bring tourists to this quiet spot in the middle of the continent. 

A Couple In England - Day Six - Part One

 By the time I woke up the next morning, I felt marginally better, even though the flu/cold/cholera had now settled in my chest and head. I was alone and so I laid in bed for a bit taking stock of the day. It was New Year's Eve - the New Year's Eve I'd been planning for ages. We had dinner reservations tonight at Cote Brasserie restaurant for 8:30, with fireworks over the Abbey afterwards. Sigh. Thank goodness I hadn't booked the horse and carriage drive I'd been contemplating for tonight.  Hubby came in the door. "You missed breakfast." "Don't care," I told him.  "How do you feel?" "Like crap. What's it doing outside?" "Rainy, cold and grey. Typical English weather. There's something fishy about this hotel." I stared at him. "It's like they keep moving the Wellington Suite," he went on. I stared at him some more. "Every time I climb those stairs and think our room is just one more flight up, it isn't. It's like they add a flight of stairs whenever I leave the hotel." "They don't move the room. You're just old. What do you want to do today?" "Are you well enough to do anything?"

That was an excellent question. Was I well enough? Had I been this ill at home, I'd have either stayed in bed all day or checked myself into a hospital. As it was, we were in Bath and I was determined to see it.
 "Well, I'm not dead. That's something. And if I'm not dead, I'm not losing another whole day in Bath. Let's start with the bus tour."  "They have a bus tour here? Like in London?" Hubby asked with enthusiasm. On that happy note I got myself washed and dressed and we trundled down the stairs, where we met Eliza. "Are you feeling any better?" she asked. "I'm no longer convinced that I'm going to die, so I suppose it's an improvement." Eliza then told us that the tour bus made a stop one block away, in front of the Holburne Museum, which I'd wanted to visit anyway. So Hubby and I headed out into the drizzle.



We arrived at the Museum and spent a few minutes looking at the exhibits before Hubby parked himself on a bench and refused to budge. "You go look around. Take your time," he told me. So I strolled about a bit, without really taking much in. I was simply too sick to appreciate the fabulous displays properly. Do check the Museum's link above to properly view their permanent collections.
Before long, I put Hubby out of his misery and suggested that we wait for the tour bus in the shelter in front of the Museum. You can see the bus shelter in the bottom right of the photo above. By this time, it was raining a bit harder, so we huddled together and looked out at Great Pulteney Street.




After a while, I dug into my shoulder bag, found the roll of loo paper I'd put in there before leaving the room and blew my nose.  "We've been sitting here for more than fifteen minutes, haven't we?" Hubby asked. "I think so." "Eliza said the tour bus stopped here every fifteen minutes." We waited another fifteen minutes in the misty cold. Still no bus.  "The main tour bus stop is by the Abbey. We can walk there." I said, taking my travel umbrella out of the shoulder bag. So Hubby and I trudged up Great Pulteney Street towards Laura Place.



And we arrived at Bridge Street and crossed the bridge.



No sooner had we gotten properly into town than what did we spy but a Cafe Nero. Our spirits soared as Hubby and I shouldered one another out of the way in an effort to be first in the door.     Hubby used our loyalty card to get us two free coffees and we sat at a table and gratefully drank our brews. There is a God, I thought as I blew my nose again.
"Do you want some food?" Hubby asked. "You didn't eat anything yesterday. Aren't you starving?"
The thought of food was repulsive. I shook my head. I finally knew how Daphne "I'll eat when I'm dead" Guinness feels.
"Cigarette?"
Even that didn't sound appealing, but I accompanied Hubby into the alley at the side of Café Nero's that leads to a quaint shopping street.  If anyone knows it's name, let me know.      From here, I led us to the bus stop at the Abbey, where we found the errant tour bus.



Bath City Tours offer two routes, the Skyline Tour and the City Tour. We began with the Skyline tour, boarded the bus and settled into front row seats on the top.
"This is great, Hon."
We adjusted our earphones as the bus pulled away from the kerb and headed towards Manvers Street and North Parade, a terrace of Grade I listed buildings built by John Wood the Elder circa 1741 as a summer promenade, ending with a viewpoint high above the river.



In the distance, we could see Sham Castle, a folly that appears to be the entrance gate to an impressive baronial hall, but which is nothing more than a single wall. It was built at the direction of  Ralph Allen "to charm all visitors to Bath."

 
Then we arrived at Great Pulteney Street. "Look, Hon, there's our hotel!" I nodded. "And the Holburne Museum."
Before long we arrived at Cleveland Bridge and the toll house.




The bridge, the third across the River Avon and the most northerly, was built by a private company at a cost of some £10,000 for the Earl of Darlington, owner of the Bathwick estate, who was created Marquess of Cleveland in 1827. One of the finest late Georgian bridges in the Greek Revival style anywhere, the bridge opened up the Bathwick Estate to considerably more traffic, and provided a new, and more dignified approach to the City by bypassing Walcot Street.
Leaving the City, we meandered along country lanes and were treated to gorgeous views of both the countryside and the City of Bath.



We passed the American Museum and  the National Trust Landscape Gardens before we returned to the City centre, where we left the bus, hand in hand. The weather was still bleak, but we had both enjoyed the tour, which had lifted our spirits. Somewhat.  "Do you want to do the other tour?" Hubby asked.  "Sure, do you?" "Yeah. I love these tours, Hon." I smiled at Hubby. "I love you. Sorry I'm sick and ruining your time in Bath.""You're not ruining it! We're having fun, aren't we?" "Yes," I said determinedly. "We are."   Part Two Coming Soon!

 

The Secrets of Bloxley Bottom, Episode 13: Eye of the Beholder

       The artist Tournell choose a room with northern and eastern exposure for his working studio at Bloxley Hall, positioning the pianoforte to place the girls in the best light. He needed to make some sketches of various poses for Lord Bloxley to approve, and one version might well be at the instrument. And what the baron would want them to wear was still to be decided as well.       Upstairs in her boudoir, Daphne fussed with her hair while Valeria tried to help.
       “You know,” Valeria said, her voice tinged with irritation, “He is going to have us sit several days. If your hair is not perfect this afternoon, let’s make it better tomorrow. We don’t even know how he wants us to pose.”
       Daphne yanked out two pins and stuck them back with a vengeance. “Ouch! I know, Val, but he won’t want us just sitting side by side. My hair has to be right from every perspective.”
        “Honestly, you are being very silly. In a moment, Mama will be up here fretting about us. We have to go downstairs.”
        “Oh, I suppose you are right. I will have Clara do it tomorrow.”
        “I am surprised Mama hasn’t sent her to us today.”
        “Haven’t you noticed? Mama seems very preoccupied about something. She hardly heard a word anyone said at dinner last night.”
        “I noticed that too.”
         As if she'd bee eavesdroppng, Lady Bloxley peered around the door. “Mr. Tournell is waiting for you. Oh my, you look lovely, both of you.”
        “Mama, can you have Clara come in and help me with my hair? It refuses to behave.”
        “Of course, dear.” She hurried off.
        Tournell hoped he wasn’t going to have to wait around like this every day he came to the hall. Patience, mon ami, he muttered to himself. He was being handsomely compensated for his efforts and if sitting and waiting was part of it, he would endure.
        At last the two daughters swished into the room followed by their mother. “How do you want them to arrange themselves?" the baroness asked.
        They were very pretty and well-formed females, Tournell thought to himself.
        “Ladies, please be seated at first, s’il vous plait. One of you will be standing in the final picture but I will do some preliminary sketches to start with.”
       “What about the clothing, Monsieur? Do you think they should be in these day dresses or perhaps, ball gowns?”
        “These will do for the moment.” He was not fond of the relatively high necked bodices of their ensembles, but he decided against making any changes immediately. Later, perhaps. With his charcoal, he began to draw outlines of their coiffeurs.



        Elizabeth sat down beside the window and gazed across the lawn. She needed to find more flowers, flowers she was unsure of. The Latin names for them were unfamiliar and she needed their common names. Tomorrow Lionel was going to some meeting of the vestrymen, of whom he was the leading member. As soon as he left the hall, she would take a look ion the library.
       Daphne and Valeria conversed as though neither the artist nor their mama was within hearing distance.
        “Would you prefer to be painted in a ball gown, Val?”
        “I would like to see how we look in these sketches first.”
        “I think a lower neckline is more flattering.”
        “Perhaps. Or at least less prissy.”
        “Or would we look too grand?”
        “Remember that picture of Grandmama. She has a big hat with a wide brim and not a hint of skin below her chin. And she looks quite lovely.”
        Tournell listened to their chatter. Ball gowns with very low décolletages would be his choice. But he was not the decision maker in this case. He doubted he would be able to get more than a glimpse of their endowments if ball gowns were not chosen.

Video Wednesday

Happy Wednesday!  Here's an eclectic round up of videos we hope will serve to amuse.






Watch, and listen to, the sheep at Walmer Castle.       The World's Oldest Photographs(including Whitehall in 1839)       Morris Dancers, Bampton, Devon      How to chop an onion by Gordon Ramsay        Fawlty Towers: Basil's Best Bits      Dame Helen Mirren's Olivier Awards Best Actress Acceptance Speech(this past Sunday)       The Attic Sale at Chatsworth 2010   

A Couple In England - Day Five - Part Three

Finally, and all at once, taxi's drew up at the Station and I left Hubby to choose one and get our luggage into the boot while I climbed into the back seat. Okay, I fell into the back seat.  And I have to tell you that I have no memory of the drive to the hotel. It's all a feverish blur. But before long, we pulled up in front of Duke's Hotel - the place I had been longing to be for months.



I peered out the back passenger window at the building and could have cried. Literally. It was perfect; just as I'd imagined it would be. And here I was, arriving as a hot, feverish mess. Sigh. Hubby climbed out of the cab and went around to the boot in order to wrestle our bags to the sidewalk, while the taxi driver came around to open my door. I was still cognizant enough to know that this was my signal to exit the taxi and I tried my best to comply, rocking myself back and forth in an effort to propel myself from the rear seat. At least I think I rocked, but in any case I made no headway at all. The driver stooped to peer into the cab at me.
"Look," I told him, "If you want me out of this cab, you're going to have to pull me out. I haven't got  the strength to do it myself." Somehow, Hubby and the cabby together got me out of the taxi and into the hotel, where we were greeted by a lovely young woman named Eliza. Duke's Hotel is nestled within the confines of a Georgian townhouse, with a lovely staircase in the entry and a reception room to the left. It is furnished like a gentleman's townhouse and filled with comfortable furniture, period fittings and artwork. What I recall most is that Duke's was filled with warmth and a feeling of home.  "Are you not feeling well?" Eliza asked kindly as I collapsed, all loose limbs, onto a sofa.  "I'm not. In fact, I think I may have died on the train somewhere around Didcot. Or it might have been Swindon." "You came on the train?" Eliza refrained from adding in that condition? "Perhaps some tea would help?" Oh, Eliza, you angel. I nodded. "What kind of tea would you like?" "Hot." I still felt as though my bone marrow had been removed and replaced with ice. I could not get warm.  Eliza bustled efficiently out of the sitting room in order to fetch the tea and I gazed around as Hubby put a hand to my forehead. "You don't look so good, Hon. And you have a fever." I nodded, expressionless. "This is a nice place, huh?" I nodded again. Hubby went to peer out of a window. "Looks like there's a nice garden back here." I continued to nod. A wooden Indian had nothing on me. Eliza came back with the tea tray. "Shall I pour it for you?" More nodding.  "Sugar?" Nod. "Milk?" A raised hand. She gave me the cup and saucer and I sipped gratefully. Oh, joy! The tea felt wonderful going down my throat. It was hot and sweet and just the ticket.      "Thank you." "My pleasure. We've all been looking forward to your stay with us. We've been reading and enjoying your blog." "Thank you."  "I'm amazed at how much you know about British history." Nod.  "And the content. It's excellent." "Thank you," I repeated, taking a long pull at my cup of tea. I was dimly aware of the fact that this was the point at which I should probably mention Victoria's equal contribution to our blog, but I wasn't up to the task. Sorry, Vic.  "And you know so much about the Duke of Wellington. He was a fascinating man, wasn't he?" Nod. Nod, mind you.  Now, as you are well aware, I would normally have welcomed nothing more than a relatively captive audience who displayed an interest in Georgian and Regency history, not to mention one who was also at least familiar with the Duke of Wellington. At any other time, I would have settled in for a nice chin wag about all manner of period topics. And all I could do in the moment was to nod.  "Let's get you upstairs, hmmmm? The Wellington Suite, yes?" Oh, Eliza, you angel! "This is a listed building and I'm afraid there's no lift," Eliza told us over her shoulder as we headed towards the stairs. I climbed the first three or four treads before I realized that I just might not be able to make it any further. I felt as though I might pass out. Good thing Hubby was bringing up the rear, I could use his body to break my fall should it become necessary.  We got to the second landing and I had to rest. My coat now felt has though it weighed three stone (forty-two pounds), at least.  "Give me your bag," Eliza said, taking my traveling shoulder bag from me and thus lightening my load by what felt like twenty pounds (or roughly one and half stone). Up we trudged until, finally, before us was a door marked "Wellington."  We entered a sitting room complete with a sofa, desk and television and then went through a set of French doors into the bedroom. 


The Wellington Suite, at last! Eliza was giving us an overview of the room, where the hair dryer was, the tea making facilities, etc. etc. etc. but I heard none of it. As she spoke, I pulled off coat and scarf and threw them on a chair. I caught a glimpse of the townhouses across the street through a window but only marginally registered the fact that I was, at long last, in Bath. Sitting on the edge of the bed, and with poor, kind Eliza still speaking, I pulled off my boots, pulled down the bed clothes and climbed between the sheets with the blanket and duvet pulled up to my chin.
After a time, I realized that I no longer heard Eliza's voice. "Is she gone?"
"Yeah. This is some room, huh? Even nicer than London. It's huge, Hon. Look, we have a living room."
"Are there bath robes in the bathroom?" I asked. "There are supposed to be bathrobes."
"You feel like crap and you're worried about the amenities?"
"Only the bathrobes. Go and see. Please." Hubby came out of the bathroom with a terry cloth robe in each hand and stood holding them out to me like some two fisted corner man at a boxing match.
"Can you cover me with them?"
"You're under all the covers already."
"Freezing. Lay them one on top of the other over me. Please."
I felt the warmth and weight of the robes as hubby tucked them around me and that's all I remember. My head sunk gratefully into the crisp, clean and very comfortable pillows and I promptly passed out.




Sometime later, it could have been an hour or a month, I woke to find Hubby offering me orange juice. He'd gone out into Bath, all on his own, and found a nearby newsagents where he bought juice. There was even ice in the glass. I sipped. Nectar!
"They didn't have your usual orange, pineapple and banana juice, so I got this. I think it's orange and mango."
I drank some more and looked at my surroundings - huge windows, a desk, even a window seat. The Wellington Suite. I fell back upon the bed.
"Medicine," . . . croaked I, and passed out again.
The next time I woke up, it was growing dark outside and Hubby was sitting on the side of the bed and handing me a chicken wrap.
"Where'd you find that? I croaked.
"There's this great take-out place over that bridge up the street."
Pulteney Bridge, I thought.
"I've been walking all around Bath. You were right, this is a great City. And not half as crowded as London."  Well, at least one of us was getting something out of Bath. If only Hubby's personal scavenger hunt would include something more practical. Again I collapsed upon my pillow and croaked, somewhat more forcefully, I hoped, "Medicine."
The next time I surfaced, Hubby had indeed found me some sort of vile tasting cough and cold syrup and a packet of throat lozenges. As I sucked on one, I noted that it was well and truly dark outside now. Our first day in Bath was gone and I had spent it bed, barely on this side of living. Cholera might have been an improvement.
Day Six Coming Soon!

Secrets of Bloxley Bottom: Episode 12: Anne's Treasures

            Anne shut the door of her bedchamber behind her and leaned against it.  How she would love to have a sketch of Prudence, her own beautiful child.  Though even now, after sixteen years, she  winced at the name Prudence,  which was not a name she would have chosen for her daughter. If only….if only...
         Anne opened her wardrobe and reached inside for the worn bag in which she hid her treasures, the little brooch that contained Frederick’s hair woven into a pattern preserved now beneath glass and the two cherished remembrances of  their child.  The tiny cap she’d knitted with the finest strands of soft lambswool and the little silver rattle that had grown dark with tarnish.  She pressed them to her bosom and let the tears flow, recalling the panic and the helplessness she felt when Frederick went off to the battle, just hours before their wedding was to be held. She remembered how he had kissed her and how he had reassured her that her worries over his safety were for naught.             Anne had felt uneasy as she watched him ride out; she’d wondered for years if she suppressed her premonition of his loss. Somehow the  feeling of utter despair that had come over her as he rode away was as alive today as it had been seventeen years ago.  Some days she fought it better than others, but there was a great dark hole in her heart, a hole that she was certain would never again be filled.
            After the Battle of Waterloo, Anne had fled Brussels, then tended the wounded before scouring every published report of the fighting and interrogating every man she encountered in an effort to learn more. She'd been desperate. Eventually, four days after the battle, she and a few others had searched the looted battlefield, seeing firsthand what the horrors had been. She could still smell the stench of decay, see the mutilated corpses of horses, the tangle of broken cartwheels, and watch in her mind's eye the human vultures picking through the debris.             She had not suspected a child was already on the way, even as she searched the makeshift hospitals and private homes of Brussels.             It had been Lady Louisa, via the Duke of Wellington, who had finally found the man who’d seen Frederick die. Anne had insisted upon speaking to him personally, no matter how chilling his account. She’d kept in touch with him until he died two years later, never recovered from his wounds, but at least in the arms of his wife. No such last respite for Frederick, who had died without knowing that he was to be a father.           
            Lady Louisa had taken charge of Anne, keeping her safe and once they could travel, bringing her back to London. Anne had almost nothing to her name at that point, no money, no family, no husband.            All she had was a baby girl, born as the next winter turned to spring. How she loved the precious little bundle she’d held for those first few weeks. She’d defied Lady Louisa and nursed the girl herself, though there had never been any question that parents would have to be found for the child.
            Louisa had handled all the arrangements, whilst protecting both Anne and the new family from gossip. And in all these years, as far as she knew, there had never been a whisper of a rumor. No one knew Anne had given birth to Prudence Newton, the pretty young daughter of Bloxley's rector and his wife. No one suspected that Prudence got her good looks from Frederick Weston, who died at Waterloo, and her sweet disposition from her mother, Miss Anne Humphrey, longtime companion to the dowager baroness Bloxley.            Anne now cherished her afternoons with Prudence in Lady Louisa’s drawing room at the Dower House. But the young lady that Prudence was today seemed a different person from that tiny child. There remained a connection and Anne’s feelings for Prudence were warm and sincere. Yet there was a distance she thought would never be bridged.  From the day Lady Louisa took the baby from Anne’s arms in order to deliver her to the Newtons, there existed two children in Anne's heart – one forever the infant at her breast, the other growing up as the daughter of the rector and his wife.          Anne clutched the cap to her and sank onto her bed.  She could not stop the tears and only with a great effort was able to keep herself from sobbing out loud.